


Better

by Colonel_Captain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colonel_Captain/pseuds/Colonel_Captain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is tender in ways Sebastian doesn’t necessarily know how to deal with; Sebastian has no regrets about (and even misses) a relationship with Jim that seems, from John’s point of view, dangerous and foreign. I want to know how they deal with those things about each other, in bed and out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shayvaalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/gifts).



“Is this the only pan you own?” Sebastian demands, waving it at John. “Because it’s the only one I can see. Do you even own pots, or do you just boil water in this too?”

“It’s mostly carry-out,” John defended. “Some of us _work_ , Sebastian, and I don’t want to come home and cook.”

“Boiling water isn’t cooking, Hamish. It’s a basic level of life function.”

John doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sebastian look so offended, and that includes after they met. He’s glaring at the pan, as if expecting it to give in and become a pot to please him. “Look, I’m sure we--I’ve got something else in. Move, I need to get into that cupboard.”

Sebastian turns his scowl on him, and then, as John shoves him over to stretch to the top cabinet, he glances John over and stops frowning. John ignores it, the way he always ignores these little moments Sebastian has, until Sebastian says ”Hey, Hame. C’mere.” He slides an arm around John’s waist, John still stretched and on his toes from trying to reach the cupboard, annoyed at the nickname, not really paying attention.  Then Sebastian reaches out and tilts John’s jaw up, and kisses him.

John’s first thought is that blonde hair is no excuse for this kind of sloppy shaving, and Seb’s drill sergeant should have taught him this. His next thought is that Sebastian is the most arrogant bastard he’s ever met and it’s not fair, and then he realizes that Sebastian has stopped kissing him. He never shut his eyes, so he’s perfectly aware that Seb is laughing at him, and damned if he’s going to stand for this kind of thing in his own kitchen.

“What do you think-” he says, but Sebastian is still laughing and John interrupts himself by kissing thin lips and the rough skin around them. If this is what his girlfriends have to go through he will shave more often. He might do it now, except that he is busy pressing against Sebastian, who falls back, and then guiding him to the wall to kiss him thoroughly.

* * *

Sebastian, John finds, always kisses much harder than he expects, teeth against his lips and scraping awkwardly over his tongue, almost too hard. It’s strange. There’s a need to it that gets an unexpected answer from something in John. It’s not bad, he thinks, far from it; but John is still trying to navigate without their teeth jarring against each other when Seb pulls back, runs a thumb rough over his cheek. John opens his mouth to ask what he’s looking at, but Seb pulls him in again.

This time the kiss is even harsher, and if Sebastian’s hands weren’t so distracting John would protest that he’d actually like to keep his lower lip in one piece. But Seb’s hands, oh god, under his shirt, nails slipping smooth with a hint of edge against his sides. And, John realizes, his own hands aren’t still either. He’s rubbing up and down Seb’s back, pressed so close that he can feel Sebastian’s heat through the layers of their clothes. Heat and hard muscle. Christ.

He pulls back to breathe, moves his mouth to Seb’s neck. It’s different as well: oily, stubbled, smelling of aftershave, but not unpleasant. John nips, lightly, and then Sebastian’s fingernails dig into his back, and he curses, pulling away. “Bloody hell, Seb, that _hurts_. Watch those claws of yours.”

Sebastian looks like a cartoon that’s had the air knocked out of him by a lorry, almost comically surprised. “Sorry,” he says, sounding dazed. John smirks. At least he’s not the only one who’s a bit thrown by this. Not that he hasn’t thought about it, but he’s learned to keep these thoughts to himself. Now it’s clear Sebastian wants it too (Not like Sherlock, John tries and fails not to think yet again. Not like Sherlock and his dismissive tone as he explained, in detail, exactly how thoroughly he considered his body to be only _transport_. Wanker). This is more equal footing, thank christ, and John could get used to that.

“It’s fine,” he says. They lean back in at almost the same moment, mouths clashing again, and this is going to bruise if they keep it up. Then it’s John stumbling backwards, reaching out behind himself for balance as Seb moves too fast. When he hits the wall it’s hard enough that his teeth clack, biting down on Seb’s lip, and Sebastian _growls_. Which is confusing in many ways, and John would really like the opportunity to think it through, but there is a hand rubbing a hard line against his erection and thought is not the highest priority right now.

“Fuck, Hamish,” Sebastian moans, looking down. “Can I?”

John swallows. Nods. “Bedroom. Too old for this.” He nods at the countertop and Sebastian rolls his eyes.

“I was planning to bring you off against the wall,” he growls. “Fine. Bedroom.”

John remembers to breathe just before he is forced to move. Sebastian is still kissing him as he steers them through the flat, mouth never more than a few inches away. When they stumble into the bedroom he pulls back just enough to grin before John is being tossed onto the bed with some sort of brutally efficient martial throw. He hits hard and at a bad angle, arm under him, the muscles of his shoulder shouting in protest. There’s not enough time to complain before Seb is on him again, a hand so far up his sternum that it’s pressing into his throat, restricting his air. The other one is already halfway into his trousers before John can grab both wrists and yank at them, wheezing past the hand on his throat. “Sebastian. Stop.”

Seb hesitates, eyebrows shooting up, and then leans back. “Sorry, Hame. Got carried away.” He reaches down, pats John’s side in a way that’s either awkward or endearing, and John can’t decide which. “Why don’t we try this with you up top, then?”

The parts of John’s brain that are still working decide that’s a perfectly reasonable offer, and he nods. “Sure.” They reposition and he lets his hand go down to Seb’s trousers, stroking through the fabric as Seb does the same to him. It’s slow at first, but it gets faster and harder until John has to pull back, too clumsy to undo Sebastian’s flies with one hand. But Sebastian has the advantage over him, and by the time he’s got the other man’s trousers open Seb’s hand is inside his pants, just a little rough, but John knows his own hands are none too steady either. Seb makes a harsh noise, rutting up into his hand, and he is already leaking. At least John isn’t the only one who has been waiting for this. Sebastian’s hand is just barely too tight on his cock, not enough to hurt but enough that John feels the tension humming through him. Seb grunts, and as he comes his hand tightens just that fraction too much. An instant too late, though, because John is coming too, his own hand clenching, and Seb makes an almost desperate sound as it happens. It’s not a good orgasm--strange and almost unpleasant, a physical reaction that he was not quite ready for, but it was the first time, and Sebastian looks pleased and lazy with it.

“Bugger fuck, Hame, you make a mess,” he says, and he looks a combination of amused and disgusted that John can feel himself flush in response to. 

“You’re a bit of a sight yourself,” he retorts, and Seb laughs and pulls him up into a kiss that is slow enough for John to negotiate from a bite into a slide of lips and tongue.

* * *

The first time Sebastian flinches from him they are in the kitchen, late after football. John is reaching for the kettle when he overbalances, and when he flails to catch his balance his arm swings towards Sebastian’s head. Seb is half-turned-away, just the side of his face showing, but John can still see his entire frame tighten and his jaw clench, eyes shut, the slightest, controlled, movement, not quite away. John jerks back, loses his balance again and slams his side against the counter in a way he knows will bruise. 

“Sorry,” he grunts, pushing against the counter, and once he has his breath back, “I’m _sorry_ , Sebastian. Jesus. I wouldn’t—sorry.” He has to crush down nausea at the thought of what Sebastian must look like, and he cannot handle the fear so he keeps his eyes down. Sebastian does not say anything.

John lets it drop, but it is a reminder to be more careful. Sebastian is damaged in ways that do not show until it is too late, and John can understand that.

That night Seb’s hands are hard on John, fingers shoved into the bruised spaces between his ribs. John is gentle with him, runs his mouth over Seb’s chest and neck and sinks into him slow and careful, holds Sebastian’s hips steady under his palms. Sebastian twists under his hands, violent as a convulsion, and it is long moments before John can soothe him back to calmness under his body. He does, though, and when Seb comes it is silent, face buried wet in John’s shoulder.

He sleeps heavy, and John traces hands gone even more careful over the scars on Sebastian’s back. There will be no more scars now.

* * *

There's a night after that first graceless fuck (and a several more besides) when they're on their way back from the pub, tandem steps echoing down the deserted street. They've both had a few drinks (John a touch more than a few, actually, and the cool night air is refreshing on his ruddy skin), but are still walking with a careful foot of space between them, none of the casual elbow-jostling John has already gotten used to.

Seb's quiet. Has been since some drunk sod knocked a pint glass off the table and onto the floor next to them, the cracking shatter of it leaving silence in its wake before the other patrons had erupted into laughter. Seb had gone utterly still, staring down at the pieces of glass like they were vital and dangerous, something undefinable flickering in his gaze. John had touched his arm, not remotely expecting the resultant shiver and tensing of muscle that had followed, nor the way Seb's eyes had snapped to his face, anticipation and predatory glint that had turned to surprise and then shuttered, careful blankness.

His face is stone, now, in the shadows of the buildings they're passing, and John's gripped with the need to _fix,_ to smooth away the caution in his steps and the tense set of his shoulders. So as they pass an alcove, John fists a hand in the front of Seb's coat and pulls him sideways, pivoting to shove him back against the granite.

Except Sebastian reacts instantly, almost like this is something he's been expecting, turning easily and moving with John's hands, so that the force of John's movement ends up slamming him back much harder than John intended. Hard enough that there's an audible thud of muscle and bone and John's own ribs ache in sympathy. "Shit, Seb, I—" But Seb's busy pulling John against him, mouth hard and hungry against his, subvocal moan vibrating against John's lips and traveling straight to his cock. The kiss is sharp, more teeth than anything else, and John winces as Seb's incisor catches his tongue, almost hard enough to draw blood.

John's hands move to Seb's shoulders in a slow stroke meant to calm and ease, but Sebastian's having none of it.  He bucks forward to rub his erection into John's hip and John pushes back, wanting him despite the tang of worry that's quickly becoming familiar. “C’mon then, Hamish,” Seb goads, nearly a growl against the line of John's jaw. "That the best you've got?"

There's a surprising flare of anger that curls against John's sternum at that, and his hands tighten on Seb's shoulders, thumbs digging sharp into the soft tissue above his collar bones. Seb doesn't react but to lick his lips and grind a little further forward, demand and challenge—and John wants nothing but to prove to him that this can be enough. Passion without the razor edge of pain and fear, gentle mixed with rough like the texture of stubble against sensitive skin. John needs to show Seb that he’s more than just a body to be damaged and used, that it’s possible to have pleasure without cruelty.

John kisses Sebastian again, pulling back from his hungry teeth and letting their tongues slide together, soft and hot. The edge of John’s palm finds the rise of insistent flesh straining Seb’s denims and rides it up and down through the fabric, easy, the resultant choked-off groan and whiskey-scented breath against his cheek making John grin. His other hand slides a few inches over to encircle Seb’s neck from the side, and Seb leans into the touch with a throaty moan.

John’s a touch too drunk to be fully hard himself, but it feels amazing all the same, holding Seb in both his hands and coaxing pleasure out of him without breaking skin. Every catch of breath and low groan is a small victory, each gentled kiss a moment to savor, and John finds he’s desperate for this to continue—to cover and erase the memories of pain that litter Sebastian’s body. And John wonders when the hell he got so deep into this.

His hand is finding Seb’s zip now, getting it down, reaching inside to touch skin that pulses hot and firm beneath his fingers. John’s touch is almost tender, teasing, fingertips running up the length of Seb’s cock and thumb smearing hot precome across the head. Seb hisses, harsh breath out between his teeth and hands moving to John’s hips to pull him closer. Another thrill of victory at that, and John licks the corner of Seb’s mouth and curls his hand around the length of him.

Sebastian’s leaning harder into the hand at his neck now, eyes squeezed tight beneath furrowed brows, and John strokes his thumb against Seb’s trachea like it’s easily breakable. Sebastian makes a sharp noise and opens his eyes. “ _Harder_.” 

There’s anger with an undercurrent of desperation in his tone and John feels it hit like a fist to the gut. His hand stills and he stares back at Seb, lips pressed tight together. Sebastian’s eyes are dark, his expression shadowed, and John had thought it would be enough. “Seb-”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow further, nostrils flaring like he’s searching for something in John’s scent. His muscles flex and jump beneath John’s hand, which refuses to tighten on his throat, and then all at once he’s bringing his hands up between them and shoving John backward. “Fucking _hell_ , Watson,” he mutters, brief shake of his head as he tucks himself away, and John is left speechless, disappointment heavy in his limbs as he watches Sebastian’s form slide into the shadows at the end of the block.

* * *

The next time Sebastian flinches they are already in bed. John misjudges and Seb’s head slams hard against the edge of the bedside table, thankfully not the corner but loud enough that John has a long moment of fear. He grabs Sebastian’s face, pulls him closer, and the impact was too fast for either of them to see coming but he jerks all over now at John’s touch, hips bucking. John can only make a strangled noise and his muscles clench, all of them suddenly tautened and tightened down.

The injury would have been bad enough, but with this John is almost hysterically apologetic, pulling out too late and trying to give Sebastian space, trying to apologize and check that he is not injured, not betrayed. He is only more concerned when he sees Sebastian, really sees him, sprawled boneless against the head of the bed, eyes half-shut and, god, if it’s a concussion John is never going to forgive himself. Or be able to explain this to his colleagues. 

“Sebastian, _please_ , can you hear me? God, I’m sorry, I’m such a—“

“Hush, Hame, “ Sebastian rumbles, and his voice is unsteady, his pupils look blown, but his gaze is clear and he reaches out for John. John lets himself be pulled forward, still worried, and says again, “I guessed the distance wrong, you should let me look. I’m sorry—“

Sebastian finally manages to hook a hand behind his head and drag him closer. “I said hush, Hamish,” he repeats, and covers John’s mouth with his own. There is a hint of blood to the taste of him, and John wants to pull back but Seb’s hands are warm, cradling his skull, and his tongue dips into John’s mouth and then out again, just barely, a long tease with a hint of teeth. John is gasping, his whole body still sensitive from shock and coming, when Sebastian nips his lip and pulls back enough to say “But if you’re all that sorry, I suppose you could make it up to me.”

He still looks not well, and John has some doubts about this but Sebastian seems lucid, really, and he pushes up with his hips and glances down meaningfully and John is sorry. Not that he wouldn’t do it anyway, of course, especially now that he’s getting better at it, but he owes Sebastian.

Sebastian’s hand tightens in his hair quickly, sooner than normal, and he looks up in alarm. Maybe this was too much, maybe Sebastian is more hurt than he realized. But Sebastian snarls“Jesus, Hamish, don’t _stop_ ” and pushes up, just barely too far, and while John swallows and tries not to gag and swallows again he comes, hard. John can just barely see him, body arched, and it must have been good because Sebastian is pushing his head against the headboard, and John uneasily realizes Seb’s angling it so the wood digs into the spot on his skull he just hit. There’s not enough pressure to do any real harm. Almost certainly.

John thinks they are done, but Sebastian’s movements are still loose, fluid rather than relaxed, and as he wipes his mouth Sebastian pushes him over backwards. He grunts in surprise but then Sebastian is looming over him, shoving John’s body over the bed until his mouth is at John’s cock. John is not really young enough for this, not anymore, but Sebastian  seems determined and when John reaches to trace his face he grabs John’s hand and shoves it against the warm skin of his scalp. John only realizes what part of his head it is when Sebastian whimpers around his cock, the noise warm and wet in an echo of his mouth, and apparently he’s not too young for this after all... But this is sick. Bad enough that he got off the first time; at least then it was just a physical reaction, unfortunate timing; he came before he knew what had happened. But not this. He snatches his hand back and shoves Sebastian off him, trusting Sebastian to make sure there aren’t any other injuries, and snaps, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sebastian, that is a _head injury_.”

Sebastian looks not betrayed, quite; more anger than sorrow. Almost petulant with fury. A child who’s been promised a favorite toy, and then had it taken away.

“Fine,” he says, not quite looming over him but John can tell the thought is there. “Then give me a different one.”

“What—Sebastian that wasn’t on purpose!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, John, then _do it on purpose._ How else do you want me to say it?”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Sebastian,” and he takes a moment, again, to hate Jim, to hate that this is a thing he has to say.

“Why the hell not,” Sebastian shouts,  and John can see his fists clenched tight enough that he shakes with it.

“Because I’m not him.” He says it quietly but it does not make a difference—Sebastian reels back and now John sees him flinch, sees the difference between the kind of flinch meant to ward off and minimize harm and the kind done in breathless anticipation.

He does nothing to stop Sebastian as he grabs his trousers off the floor and slams the door behind him.

Sebastian comes back, because that is what he does. John’s kept the kettle at not-quite boiling for an hour so now, and Sebastian makes an annoyed noise and dumps it out, refilling it with fresh water. They stand in the kitchen while it comes to a boil, neither of them saying anything, and as Sebastian hands John his tea their fingers brush. The touch feels less affectionate and more like a concession.

* * *

John thinks that is the end of it. That Sebastian understands, now, and that things will be different. John is wrong.

“I don’t see why you’re acting like this is such a big deal,” Seb says, flat, his back against the wall and his hands tight at his sides. “It’s a couple of smacks. I’m not asking you for... Jesus, for anything fucking honeymooners don’t do.”

“It’s a big deal to me, Seb.” John says, and he will stay calm, he will be the reasonable one here. “I don’t want to hurt you. That’s not... It’s not healthy.”

“You can fuck off,” spits Sebastian. “Not. Jesus, John, who are you? ‘Not healthy.’ Don’t tell me what I can and can’t get off on.”

“Sebastian, I understand that things were different before... Things were different. But I’m not going to participate in that kind of abusive-”

John is busy keeping calm and does not see Sebastian’s hand coming. It is so unhelpful and stupid and not the way things get resolved that he is more blind with fury than pain, and it takes every piece of discipline he has ever learned not to hit him back.

But that is what Sebastian wants, and that is what John knows would be the worst thing to give him, knows it straight through the aching bones in his face, down his spine and this is not sustainable.

“John Watson, you keep your fucking mouth shut on what you don’t know.” Seb might know too, John thinks, in the bite marks he never quite leaves on Sebastian, the white fingerprints that fill with blood in less than moments. All the times he could see Seb’s waiting eyes and pulled back those few inches.

“I’m not going to hit you, Sebastian. Not like that.”

“I’m not going to stop wanting it.”

“That’s it, then.” John says, and it is almost a relief to have it finally aloud.

“Guess so,” and Seb’s voice is almost light and his shoulders relax, now, and none of this is fair. Things were supposed to be _better._

* * *

The whiskey hasn’t gotten any better, John thinks, but it hasn’t gotten any worse either. That counts for something. 

Seb is late, again, which means he’s going to be at least another fifteen minutes. Generally he’s either perfectly punctual or at least twenty minutes late. John mostly considers himself lucky that he can count on Sebastian to show up at all. Two years ago he wouldn’t have bothered showing up late. “No point, Hame. Not going to rush all the way out here for no reason,” still stuck in a sniper’s mindset even though they were missing dinner and not a target.

Seb does a lot of things differently now. He orders the same whiskey but leaves it partially full more often than not, and sometimes John has to crush down the part of him that wants to smash the glass to the ground and demand to know why he was not enough, why he never seems to be enough.

He knows, though. Sebastian swings in, eighteen minutes late, right on schedule for a Thursday. His easy lope is just a touch uneven, nothing anyone would notice without a doctor’s eye. But he’s practically radiating calm and contentment, the way he so often does these days.

“Evenin’, Hamish,” Seb says, clapping John on the shoulder and tossing himself down onto the chair, and John winces. “Been waiting long?”

“No,” John says, sliding the second mostly-melted whiskey he ordered over to Sebastian. He knows money’s tight. Seb’s still not quite able to hold down a job that doesn’t involve violence, and Seb would never ask but after the first few times they started meeting again, he stopped offering to pay. John can afford a few pounds a week.

Sebastian takes a sip and then runs his tongue over his teeth inside his mouth, not quite a flinch as the alcohol hits what John knows will be a mostly-healed cut. He carefully does not look at Seb’s left eye, which is looking much better this week.

John, usually, is successful at not wondering what makes Sebastian late.

“How are things going with...Amrita?” Sebastian asks.

“Fine. Well. It’s Mary, actually, it didn’t work out with Amrita.”

“Shame, she seemed nice. Going well with this one, then?”

“Sure. Fourth date.”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows. “Well, well, John Hamish Watson, you must be getting serious.”

“Shut up, you wanker. Besides, you look, uh, like you’re doing well. With Laura.”

Seb smiles, a slow curl of lips over teeth that makes John think of him stretching in the mornings, long and lean, shirt riding up over hips and tanned skin. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

It’s been at least a year, John thinks; Sebastian has no business still looking so pleased with himself, so dazed and fortunate and surprised.

“She wants to meet you,” and Seb still sounds pleased and smug but there’s a bit of hesitation, and John has to swallow hard. Seb is so soft now. A month ago he walked John home after six drinks; John stumbled, and when Seb caught him his hands were gentle as he set John back on his feet. John does not understand it, but there it is.

“Invite her along next time, then,” he says, and hides the effort it takes to tease, “maybe that way you won’t be late.”

Sebastian does not blush but John thinks he would if he could, and he laughs like a man who has not noticed he is in love. “I will.”

Sebastian’s found someone that fits with him in a way John never could, and John is glad for him. And Mary is kind, pretty in a way that means John looks for her in magazines sometimes, and she likes the edge of his teeth on her neck but enjoys John’s gentle kisses just as much.

Seb nudges John with his elbow companionably, raises his glass in a little salute, and John does the same. “Cheers to that,” and as he takes a drink he is smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. I am sorry I did not get it posted in time for the exchange. I hope you like it.


End file.
